Price of Fame

by Amaleka McCall

  Dominique approached the girl cautiously. “Hey,” Dominique called out, a safe distance from the garbage can. The girl jumped so hard, she stumbled backward. Her blue eyes open wide, she slowly regained her footing and began walking backward, her hands lifted in surrender.

  “Whoa, whoa . . . I’m not trying to hurt you. You just look like you need some food . . .”Dominique said, already regretting her interference. The girl seemed to perk up at the mention of food. “Where you from?” Dominique asked, taking in the girl’s outdated hairstyle and that awful homemade flowered dress. The girl just stared back in silence. “All right, it’s your choice. I gotta go to work. I don’t got no time to mess with you,” Dominique said, preparing to walk away.

  “From Utah,” the girl blurted out as Dominique turned her back.

  “Utah! How in the hell you get all the way to New York? Shit!” Dominique exclaimed, whipping back around and crinkling her face. “What’s your name?” Dominique asked.

  “Casey,” the girl whispered.

  “Well, Casey, your ass is gonna get eaten up fuckin’ with these mean streets,” Dominique said, digging in her purse for a cigarette. The girl looked at Dominique strangely.

  “What? People in Utah don’t smoke?” Dominique asked, lighting her cigarette.

  “I . . . I . . . never talked to someone with skin like yours before,” Casey stammered.

  “What the fuck you mean? They don’t got no black people in Utah?” Dominique exclaimed, looking at Casey in shock.

  “If so, I never seen or talked to any,” Casey said so softly that Dominique had to strain to hear her words.

  “Shit . . . no wonder you dressed like that,” Dominique said. Casey looked down at herself, then looked at Dominique’s clothes–a black bustier top that choked her breasts almost up to her chin; a jean skirt so short it barely covered her ample ass cheeks; and heels so high Casey couldn’t imagine how Dominique balanced her weight on them.

  “Well, I’m black and my black ass is about to feed you. C’mon, because I gotta get back to work,” Dominique said, crushing her cigarette under her foot.

  Casey followed Dominique closely until they stopped at a pizza shop right on Seventh Avenue. “Let me get three plain slices, extra crispy,” Dominique ordered the food without asking Casey what she wanted. Casey probably didn’t know anything about pizza anyway.

  “C’mon and sit down,” Dominique instructed. Casey obeyed. “So, farm girl, what in the hell you doin’ so far away from home?” Dominique asked.

  “I’m trying to get here,” Casey said, unfurling her crumpled magazine clippings about Juilliard’s ballet school.

  Dominique laughed. “That damn school hard as hell to get into . . . plus, you look a little thick to be a ballerina,” Dominique said.

  “Thick?” Casey asked.

  “Thick . . . yeah, like not fat but not skinny, either,” Dominique explained. Casey lowered her eyes. “So you just came to New York . . . with no place to stay . . . nobody you know . . . and no money?” Dominique inquired.

  “My brother Ethan gave me money but it was all gone before I got here. I had to stop in five different states and bus stations and everyone kept asking for money,” Casey explained.

  “What? You gave your money to beggars? Oh, girl . . . you are all messed up,” Dominique told her, really feeling sorry for the girl. Dominique slid two slices of pizza toward Casey. She devoured the food.

  “What is this called again?” she asked, licking the sauce from her lips.

  “Ohh, lawd . . . where the fuck you been living? Under a damn rock?” Dominique asked, shaking her head.

  “No, on a compound,” Casey responded with a heavy sigh.

  Dominique quizzed Casey on her life. She was truly shocked by some of the stuff the girl told her. Men having six and seven wives; girls getting married at fourteen; all types of crazy shit. Things that made her life seem almost dull. Dominique’s cell phone rang, interrupting her interrogation. Dominique looked down at the screen and saw Jordan’s name. “Shit!” she muttered, looking around. Jordan was going to spazz out when he discovered that she had not made any money. Then again, if she brought him Casey, maybe he would forgive her for not turning any tricks tonight.

  Dominique and Casey left the pizza shop. Casey looked like she would have followed Dominique off the side of a cliff right now. “Look, I’m going to introduce you to my friend. Maybe he will let you stay with us for tonight,” Dominique informed her.

  “I . . . I . . . don’t know. Ethan told me to go straight to Juilliard and not to talk to any strangers,” Casey hesitated.

  “Well, Juilliard is closed right now and you can’t stay out here another night. You were lucky last night but it won’t be like that every night. New York is a good place, but it can also be very dangerous for somebody as naive as you,” Dominique warned. She was concerned about Casey, but also about making Jordan happy since her pockets were dry.

  When Jordan pulled up, Dominique waved and smiled, phony as hell. She dragged Casey by the arm. Jordan’s face immediately lit up. Whew. Dominique wiped the perspiration from her forehead, relieved that he was in a good mood. “What’s up, Daddy? This is Casey,” Dominique introduced.

  “Hel . . . hello,” Casey said, like a deer staring down oncoming headlights, without a clue of whether to run or stay put.

  “What up?” Jordan replied, looking at Dominique askance.

  “She never seen black people and since your ass is like a tar baby, I’m sure she is a li’l shocked,” Dominique whispered to Jordan.

  “What we doin’ with her? Taking her to the spot?” Jordan asked.

  “We need to take her with us. She won’t survive one night up in that raggedy-ass apartment with those hungry-ass bitches if that’s where you was thinking of taking her,” Dominique said.

  Jordan looked confused. This coming from the one person who was dead set against messing with the white girl.

  “So you gon’ get her ready to work?” Jordan asked.

  “Let’s just say I’m going to take care of her,” Dominique replied, glancing in the backseat at Casey, who stared out the window like a kid at the museum.

  When they arrived at Dominique’s building, Casey hesitated before following them into the elevator. “Don’t tell me you ain’t never been on a elevator, either?” Dominique asked.

  “No, in Utah where I’m from, all of the buildings are one level,” Casey answered truthfully.

  Jordan began to laugh, startling Casey. “Yo, you got two weeks to break her in . . . get it right.”

  Casey had no idea what the black man was talking about. Dominique looked Casey up and down, formulating a look for her. That hairstyle and that horrible-ass dress gotta go!

  Dominique showed Casey around the apartment and gave her a pair of jeans and a tank top to put on. Dominique slapped her own forehead when Casey confessed that she had never worn pants in her life. “Those some crazy muthfuckas you was living with,” Dominique said, shaking her head.

  Within three days, Dominique had given Casey a complete makeover and she looked beautiful. When Dominique first combed the long braid out of Casey’s hair, her golden locks spilled over her shoulders like rays of sunshine. Dominique teased Casey’s hair and gave it some body. Instead of the customary FLDS bangs, Dominique flipped the shorter hair into a layered Farrah Fawcett look. Casey loved it! She swung her head around and smiled at herself in the mirror. Dominique showed Casey how to apply makeup, too. Being with Dominique was so much fun, and Casey hated when Dominique had to leave her to go to “work.”

  Three long weeks later, Casey was ready to start working for her own money.

  “Okay . . . You remember what I showed you?” Dominique asked.

  “Yes,” Casey answered, trying to balance on the high heels.

  “It’s just a date today. These guys are pretty smart, so don’t talk too much . . . let me handle that part,” Dominique instructed. Casey agreed with everything Dominique said. She
was just happy to have found such a good friend. Casey thought of Dominique as her guardian angel and felt confident that she would keep her safe from danger.

  The first time Casey was left alone with a “date,” she thought she would piss her pants. She hadn’t had sex since she lived on the compound with Samson and no matter how many times Dominique tried to show her the ropes. Casey didn’t think she knew what to do–not their way, anyhow.

  “Come sit here,” the man said, patting the bed. He had told Casey at dinner that he was a stockbroker. Casey had no idea what the hell a stockbroker did, but she had noticed the wedding band on his left finger.

  “Oh, what . . . this? I’m not happy,” he said, his cheeks becoming flush.

  “How many do you have?” Casey asked.

  “What? Wives?” the man asked, furrowing his eyebrows, confused.

  “Yes,” she whispered, sensing already that she had said too much when Dominique had told her not to speak too much.

  “Geez . . . only one. That’s enough. Unless, of course, you want to be my secret wife,” he said seductively.

  I do,” Casey lied, thinking about how Dominique had told her to move her hips. She straddled him and he eased back on the bed. Casey closed her eyes as her body moved with short, fast bursts of energy. She imagined herself dancing gracefully at Juilliard.

  Chapter Nine

  Rude Awakening

  Brice sat at his desk going over the discoveries he had made while searching through Arianna’s belongings. He’d linked the Jordan Bleu character from the business card with the adult film star Casey Pete and a girl named Dominique Branch. Jordan had managed both girlscareers. Brice felt a flash of heat on his cheeks when he researched Casey Pete, who was also known in the “business” as Denver Peaks–the busty star of a couple of the most popular blue movies that Brice owned. He had recently heard that she tried to commit suicide. Brice marked her name as a potential person of interest. He was both excited and nervous at the prospect of interviewing such a famous porn star.

  As Brice jotted notes at his desk, he looked up to find Detective D’Guilio watching him. What the fuck this dude want? Brice was about to voice his question when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

  “Hello?” Brice answered. “Wait, calm down!” Brice instructed as he grabbed his trench coat and headed out of the squad room.

  Brice paced the floor in circles, beads of sweat lined up on his hairline like ready soldiers. “Sit down for a minute,” his mother said, fanning herself. He was making her nervous.

  “Why didn’t you call me on Friday? I’m a cop, for goodness sake. You know how it looks for me to report my sister missing after she’s been gone three days?” he reprimanded. His mother began crying again. Brice shook his head. “Ma, I didn’t mean it. I’m just upset and nervous,” he apologized, grabbing her by the shoulders.

  When his mother had called, Brice had been buried in evidence and paperwork regarding his case. Arianna Coleman’s death already had him on edge, and now this. Brice had three squad cars out scouring the streets of Brooklyn looking for his little sister. His commanding officer had asked him to stay behind with his mother. They said he was too emotionally wired to be actively involved in the search.

  It was so not like Ciara to run away. Brice couldn’t help but think of what Arianna’s mother had said: that her daughter was a good student and wouldn’t have run away. But she had also noticed changes in her daughter’s behavior–coming home late from school, angry all the time–changes that were eerily similar to his sister’s. The entire situation made Brice’s stomach muscles clench. He wiped his hands down his face and held his head in his hands, trying to be patient. Brice was torn up inside. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen to his family. He had worked hard to get his mother out of the projects and into a nice brownstone in Bed-Stuy. He joined the police to help victims and their families . . . not to become a victim’s family.

  Finally, there was a knock on the door, from familiar NYPD patrol officers. “What’s up, Simp,” one of the officers said. Brice stepped out onto the stoop. He didn’t want to upset his mother if there was bad news.

  “What did they find out?” Brice asked, cutting to the chase.

  “Man, her trail ran cold. She hasn’t been to school in a couple of days. Some girl at the school said a guy in a big fancy car came to pick her up on a few occasions, but she couldn’t remember the type of car or any other pertinent details,” the cop explained.

  Brice was rocking on his feet. He didn’t even realize it. He suddenly felt a rush of heat and became lightheaded. This was all his fault. He had become so consumed with his career and hiding his past indiscretions that he didn’t even realize his sister was in trouble.

  “So y’all gonna keep searching, right?” Brice asked, blinking his eyes rapidly to clear the black spots from his vision.

  “Well, we will turn it over to midnights,” the other cop said.

  “I want the whole fuckin’ city combed! I don’t care if it’s street by fuckin’ street! This is my sister! She didn’t run away!” Brice screamed, the veins in his neck throbbing.

  “Whoa, man . . . I will pass on the message,” the lead cop said, turning to leave.

  Brice punched at the air. His head pounded. He needed more information. What had happened to make his sister change so suddenly? What was she trying to hide? Brice tried to compose himself before he went to speak with his mother. He knew she would have a million questions, and he needed to find those answers fast.

  Brice stormed into the house, rushing past his mother. Before she even had a chance to fire a single question, he headed straight for Ciara’s room. Banging open the door, he began pillaging through her personal effects. Brice opened dresser drawers and threw clothes left and right. Next, he went into the closet and pulled clothes off of hangers and dumped a neat stack of sneaker boxes, looking for hidden clues. He even got on his knees and looked under her bed. When his efforts turned up empty, he pulled the comforter and sheets from the mattress and even examined the mattress itself to see if anything had been stashed inside or underneath. Brice was trembling all over. His anxiety was making him lose it. But he had to continue his search.

  Brice walked to Ciara’s desk and emptied the drawers. Papers sprinkled over his feet like large snowflakes. Brice pulled the last drawer out and spotted Ciara’s diary. Brice bent down and picked it up, noticing that it was locked.

  “Fuck this,” Brice grumbled, picking the lock with his pocket knife. With the sharp metal edge, he cut the small piece of leather that connected the lock with the book pages. He flipped through the pages of the diary and finally came to a page that piqued his interest. His heart sank when he read the lines:

  He said he loved me. He said he is going to make me a star.

  He felt like someone had kicked him in the heart. Brice dropped the book and raced out of the room and straight past his mother.

  “Brice? Brice? What is it?” his mother called out behind him.

  Heart pounding, Brice used the back of his arm to wipe sweat out of his eyes. He was a man possessed.

  “Here she is, my new girl,” Jordan said, sliding two pictures across the table.

  “Wow, she’s a looker.” The white man whistled appreciatively as he surveyed the shots.

  “I’m not putting her on the streets. She is going underground . . . that new wave in porn, man–that young girl shit. She been with me for a few days, but we about to hit the L.A. underground scene. Plane tickets already purchased,” Jordan informed.

  “Well, I got three this time, man, so what you paying?” the man asked in his thick, “fuggedaboutit” accent.

  “You know I need to see them. These customers are getting picky and shit. They say they want the little ones until they get ’em,” Jordan griped.

  “Well, after that last fuckin’ close call, I go straight foreign now. These bitches come from the Philippines, Bangladesh, and those poor-ass countries like that,” the man explai
ned.

  “Oh yeah, my Russian connection got some good ones too. Can you believe these bitches think they will be coming here to get a rich husband?” the man continued, chuckling.

  “Good. I don’t want no more bullshit. Especially when you get paid to do shit and you don’t come through,” Jordan told him.

  “Ay . . . I did what I was asked. You know, everybody wants to get their fifteen minutes of fame, I can’t help that,” the white man said, his eyes hooding over at Jordan’s accusation. He pictured the detective’s eager-beaver face.

  “Well, he better back the fuck off. Don’t he know fame comes with a price?” Jordan said pointedly.

  “Well, let’s go to the warehouse so you can take the pick of the litter,” the man laughed, trying to break up a tense moment.

  Jordan waited for the man to leave before he got into his own car. They would never leave their chosen meeting spots together, just in case someone happened to see them.

  Alton sat in the dark church basement. The only light came from the illumination of his private computer screen. The images flashing on the screen made his nature rise. He grabbed his throbbing tool and yanked on it roughly. “Mmmm,” he moaned, getting off on his favorite porn star, Denver Peaks. Her perky pink nipples drove him wild. His addiction to pornography was growing, as was his appetite for deviant sex. He growled as he reached climax, warm fluid spilling into his hand. The shame came instantly. Balling his hands into fists, he banged them on the desk, making his screen flicker. He wrestled with these urges daily, but they seemed to be overpowering him lately.

  Needing more, Alton did a Google search to find more of Denver’s material. He’d already watched all of her recent movies. In his Internet search, he learned that there were some films of her when she was younger. Alton loved young girls. He tried to keep his yearning for them at bay by indulging in pornographic movies and magazines. But he didn’t know how long satisfaction from the fantasy world would last. His sexual urges sometimes kept him up at night. Once, he had decided to dispose of all of his pornography. He’d driven fifty miles to a park and set all of his books and DVDs on fire. But as soon as the material caught fire, he panicked; instead, he chose to salvage his vices. That day, when he returned home, he had taken his anger out on his wife. His secret and the shame made him uncontrollably angry.